


Muscles Better and Nerves More

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Anal Sex, Brief kinda non-con?, Canon-Typical Violence, Frottage, M/M, See notes for deets on that, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 05:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: "Hello, Stiles," Peter's voice purrs down the line. Stiles lets out a harsh breath. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you calling me at 1:00 a.m.?"Shit, is it that late? He hadn't even noticed."Stiles?" Peter asks when Stiles doesn't say anything. Stiles is pretty sure he's imagining the concern in his voice."I need your help," Stiles says."Really," Peter says, sounding amused. Fucker. "And why exactly should I help you?""Besides the whole pack loyalty thing? That I've saved your life multiple times?" Stiles asks. "I don't know, basic human decency?"Peter hums under his breath. "Well, I suppose there is that," he says."How about the chance to be an alpha again?" Stiles asks.There's silence down the line for long enough that Stiles actually pulls his phone away from his ear to make sure the call is still connected."Where are you?" Peter finally asks.ORStiles is attacked by an alpha at college and bitten. He calls Peter for help.





	Muscles Better and Nerves More

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this. I kind of like it where it is, but there are other nebulous ideas, too. So who knows.
> 
> See end notes for non-con warning.

Late classes are the bane of Stiles' existence. In theory, it made sense. He could sleep in, avoid the 8:00 a.m. misery of early classes. The only problem was once it got to 5:00, when Stiles' first class starts, he's ready for dinner, he's ready to be settled in for the night with his homework and video games. And yeah, he knows he sounds like an old man, but sue him, he likes it, especially after years of running for his life in Beacon Hills. He's away now, at Berkeley, and just wants to go to bed at a reasonable hour, damn it! Maybe he should take an old man name, maybe he should change it to Bert. 

Despite the questionable decisions of his class schedule, college has been great for Stiles. He's made friends, he's branched out, and he's so far managed to avoid getting entangled in any local supernatural drama. Not to say that the supernatural isn't here, oh no. He's identified at least two werewolves in his history class, one professor that he'd bet his life is a vampire, and he's pretty sure he's seen a ghost in the top floor of the library. It's whatever, they're not bothering him, and he's not bothering them.

It's 7:30 p.m. and he's getting out of his psychology class when someone throws their arm around his neck, bumping their hip against his. It's Trey, one of the guys in his project group. Stiles had thought he was a douche at first, that he'd be the stereotypical frat boy with his backwards hat and sliders with socks, but as it turns out, he's actually smart as hell and one of the nicest people Stiles has ever met, and Stiles knows Scott. 

"My man," Trey says. "We're heading to the bar, come get a drink with us?"

"I'm tired," Stiles says. "Really, all I want is to go home and wrap myself in a blanket and sleep my weekend away."

"It's Friday night! You're young, live your life! Come on," Trey says, nudging his side. "Who knows, we might even find you some hot guy and you can check a college hookup off your bucket list."

"That is absolutely not on my bucket list," Stiles says, but Trey's pleading is wearing him down. Trey's girlfriend, a short blonde named Clarissa, is pouting at him too, giving him the worst puppy dog eyes. Stiles groans, feels himself giving in. He does always say no, and really, what's wrong with spending time with his friends. "Fine," Stiles says. Trey and Clarissa cheer. "One drink! One!"

He does not have one drink. Trey buys him a shot and god, Stiles hates tequila. After that he has a beer or two and finds he's actually having a good time. A few of his and Trey's friends meet them there and a few more drinks later, it's midnight and Stiles is pleasantly buzzed, if not flat-out drunk. The bar is getting more crowded, full of college kids celebrating the three-day weekend. It's getting a little full for Stiles' taste, not being a fan of small spaces.

"I'm gonna head out!" Stiles shouts to Trey over the music.

"What? Dude, we just got here!" Trey shouts back.

"It's been like four hours!" Stiles says.

Trey blinks and looks at the clock and says, "Huh. Okay, see you in class!"

Stiles waves and pays his tab (it takes five minutes to get the bartender's attention, but he's patient, he knows they're busy) before heading out into the night. It's warm for May and there's not much bite in the air, so he decides to skip the bus and just walk home. It's a mile or so, but he doesn't mind, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. 

Stiles isn't stumbling drunk, but he's definitely a little tipsy. He trips over his own feet once or twice, but he does that sober in all fairness. Stiles blames the alcohol for why, on a quiet and dark street, he doesn't see the man run up behind him. He doesn't hear the footsteps until something's hitting him from behind, sending him crashing to the ground. There's a weight on his back, a body pressing him into the concrete sidewalk. Stiles throws his elbow back the way Chris showed him, hitting the body behind him in the ribs. The person on him grunts but doesn't move and well, fuck. Stiles struggles, trying to buck the body off of him but all he gets for his effort in a hand on the back of the neck, shoving his face down into the sidewalk. Then he hears the growl.

Stiles freezes. Oh no, oh fuck no, because he knows that growl. That's the growl of a very pissed of werewolf. Fight or flight really kicks in then and Stiles is shouting, thrashing on the ground, but it makes no difference, the werewolf stays on his back and then, with blinding pain, sinks his teeth into Stiles' shoulder. Stiles screams and feels the skin break, feels his blood spilling from the wound, coating his skin and flowing down to drip off his shoulder near his face. There's a pool of blood gathering near Stiles' nose and he can smell the coppery tang of his own blood.

Just as quick as it starts, it's over, the werewolf letting go of Stiles and standing. Stiles looks behind himself just in time to see the silhouette of a large man standing over him, face obscured thanks to the defective streetlight, but Stiles can still see his eyes. They're a bright, luminescent red. Without a word, the man turns and runs back the way he came. The entire attack had taken less than thirty seconds.

Stiles just lies there for a moment, completely frozen. The bite on his shoulder is pulsing with pain and his shirt is clinging to his skin, soaked with his blood. Stiles doesn't know why he was attacked, he doesn't know what the alpha had wanted, or if he plans on coming back, but Stiles doesn't feel like sticking around to find out. He scrambles up, not even noticing the scrapes on his chin and hands from the cement, and runs down the street toward his apartment, away from where the alpha had run.

Stiles can't go to a hospital, he can't, not if he's been bitten. There's nothing they could do anyway, either watch him inexplicably heal, or watch black, thick liquid spew from his mouth as the bite slowly kills him. Stiles has the presence of mind to stick to dark streets and darker alleys, not wanting anyone to see his blood-soaked shirt and call the police. There aren't many people out at past midnight, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He's suddenly thankful for his slightly sketchy apartment complex where no one asks too many questions. No one is there when runs up the stairs, and even if they were, he's pretty sure they'd just look away and ignore it. 

Stiles' hands are shaking so badly that he barely can get the keys in the lock, but as soon as he does, he's inside, flinging the door closed behind him and flicking the deadbolt. It's nothing if an alpha werewolf really wants to get in, but it makes him feel better anyway. He doesn't know what to do. He's running on pure adrenaline right now and all he wants is to get his bloody, torn shirt off. He tosses it in the trash and closes the bag, the smell of blood already getting to him. Is that new senses, is his sense of smell already getting stronger?

Stiles goes to the bathroom shirtless and gasps at what he sees. He'd known it was bad, he'd felt the alpha take a good bite out of him, but he wasn't prepared for the red mass that is the bite on his shoulder. It's like seeing it makes it real, makes the adrenaline he's running on stop protecting it and it suddenly stops stinging and starts hurting, a deep, harsh pain that worsens with every breath he takes. 

Stiles grits his teeth and takes a towel, wetting it, and gentling running it around the wound, cleaning off as much blood as he can. It's still bleeding sluggishly, but the worst of it has passed, and god, there's no reason for it to not still have blood flowing freely except for accelerated healing. Fuck. This is real. This isn't a dream. Stiles counts his fingers anyway but no, there are ten. This is real. Stiles has survived throughout high school as human, he survived possession, he'd survived alpha packs and all kinds of creatures, only to end up turned at his college, far away from his pack.

Suddenly, Stiles is angry. He's livid. He shouts in rage, screaming at his reflection. All he gets for his efforts is his neighbor angrily hitting the wall and telling him to keep it down. Stiles laughs a bit hysterically at that. So sorry to disturb your sleep, just having a life-altering crisis over here. Sorry, not human anymore, your neighbor is a mythical creature. The life he'd planned has been stolen from him. The relative safety he'd had as a human is gone, opening up a whole world of hunters and danger. He's stronger now, yes, but he's also more of a target.

Just as quick as the anger had come, it drains, filling Stiles with fear. He doesn't know how to be a werewolf, he doesn't know how to control this. He knows it all in theory, but he can't concentrate at the best of times, how is he supposed to focus on an anchor? On controlling himself? On making sure everyone around him is safe? He'll figure that out, he tells himself. He helped Scott, he can help himself. 

But first thing's first. He technically has an alpha, as much as it is not consensual. And that just isn't going to work for him. Stiles takes his phone and considers what he's about to do, the lines he's about to cross, but he doesn't care. The choice was take from him.

Stiles' hands are shaking as he dials Peter's number. He could call Scott, he probably should call Scott. Scott would help him control his wolf, would accept him easily into his pack. That's not what Stiles wants right now. He wants the alpha who did this to him dead.

_"Hello, Stiles,"_ Peter's voice purrs down the line. Stiles lets out a harsh breath. _"To what do I owe the pleasure of you calling me at 1:00 a.m.?"_

Shit, is it that late? He hadn't even noticed. 

_"Stiles?"_ Peter asks when Stiles doesn't say anything. Stiles is pretty sure he's imagining the concern in his voice.

"I need your help," Stiles says.

_"Really,"_ Peter says, sounding amused. Fucker. _"And why exactly should I help you?"_

"Besides the whole pack loyalty thing? That I've saved your life multiple times?" Stiles asks. "I don't know, basic human decency?"

Peter hums under his breath. _"Well, I suppose there is that,"_ he says.

"How about the chance to be an alpha again?" Stiles asks.

There's silence down the line for long enough that Stiles actually pulls his phone away from his ear to make sure the call is still connected.

_"Where are you?"_ Peter finally asks.

"At my apartment," Stiles says.

_"I'll be there in an hour and a half,"_ Peter says.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Thank you."

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and hangs up.

Stiles spends the next hour and half alternating between pacing and sitting on his couch, his hands clapped over his ears. He can hear everything, he can smell everything, and god, how do werewolves deal with this? It's only going to get worse, Stiles knows. This is just the beginning, the start of his body changing and adjusting. He can't imagine what it'll be like when he's fully turned.

There's a scent permeating his apartment, not a bad one, but familiar. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize it's his own scent. Once he has, he feels the urge to scent mark everything, for his entire apartment to smell like his. He walks along the walls, dragging his hand across them as he goes, leaving behind a trail of his scent. 

Stiles stands in front of the bathroom mirror and tries to change his eyes, tries to make his claws extend, but he can't. Maybe he isn't far enough into the process of changing yet. Or maybe he won't change, maybe his body will reject the bite. Maybe he'll die in his shitty college apartment, black liquid spilling from his mouth.

Before Stiles can work himself into a panic, and he knows he's getting close, there's a knock from the front door. It could be anyone, but somehow Stiles knows it's Peter on the other side. He can smell him through the door, a mix of his usual subtle cologne and something else that for some reason he can identify as uniquely Peter. Stiles takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Peter's scent hits him fully then and fuck, the man smells _good_. If Stiles had any less self-control, he'd be pressing his face into the wolf's neck, adding his own scent to Peter's.

Peter opens his mouth, probably to make some dickish comment, but freezes as he takes in Stiles' scent, at the way Stiles is sure it's changed. His eyes jump to the scrapes on Stiles' face from where he hit the pavement. Peter reaches out and cups Stiles' cheek, a thumb running over his cheekbone.

"What's happened to you, little one?" Peter asks.

"Get in here," Stiles says, standing aside so Peter can enter his apartment. 

Peter glances around, lip curling in disgust at the dirty plates scattered around, at the cheap furniture and stained walls. It's Stiles' first apartment, so sue him. But now that he can smell it really, smell all the years of abuse the carpet has taken and the food residue on the plates he's yet to wash, he can understand Peter's slight obsession with cleanliness. 

Peter sits at Stiles' rickety kitchen table and gestures for Stiles to do that same. Stiles bristles a bit at being told what to do in his own home, but he sits.

"Tell me what happened," Peter says.

"I have a night class," Stiles says. "And I got a drink with a few friends after, so it was already dark when I was walking home. I didn't see him, didn't even hear him, all of the sudden I was on the ground, someone on my back holding me down. I didn't even have time to scream before he, well..." 

Stiles tugs down the collar of his shirt to show off the ragged bite wound. It looks worse than Scott's did, and Peter was even feral at the time. The edges are jagged, like the strange alpha hadn't just bitten him, but he took a hunk of flesh with him. Peter stands and walks around the table, inspecting the bite spanning Stiles' shoulder. 

"I don't know if he was feral or just vicious," Stiles says. "But he was gone as soon as he bit me."

"Probably nearly feral and desperate," Peter says, touching the edges of the bite. Stiles winces. "As we both know, the only reason to bite someone that isn't willing is if that alpha is desperate for a pack. It may just be him, trying to cling to his sanity."

"I don't care," Stiles says. "He bit me without consent."

"I'm not defending him," Peter says. "It's an explanation, not an excuse. The bite doesn't show any signs of rejection, no black goo seeping out of you. Congratulations, you'll live."

Stiles nods. He'd figured that already, but it's good to hear confirmation.

"Good," Stiles says.

"Why did you call me, Stiles? Surely Scott would be better equipped to help a newly-bitten beta," Peter says.

Stiles knows that Peter's already figured out what he wants, he just wants Stiles to say it. Figures, the asshole can never make anything easy.

"I want you to kill him," Stiles says bluntly. 

"I would think you'd be more than capable of doing that yourself," Peter says. "So I ask again, why call me?"

"I don't want to be an alpha," Stiles says. "That's more responsibility than I want. But I know you do, I know you crave that power again. I know you want to get it right this time."

"You do realize that if I do this, I'll technically be your alpha?" Peter says. "I would have control over you, a certain sway."

"You wouldn't force me to stay in your pack," Stiles says confidently.

"Oh no?" Peter asks, looking entirely too amused. "And what makes you think that? You'd make an excellent pack member, and an even better wolf."

"You know I'd kill you, whether that'd make me an alpha or not," Stiles says.

Peter hums and looks at Stiles consideringly. He's quiet for a few minutes before saying, "Yes, I believe you would."

"So are you going to help me?" Stiles asks, aware of how desperate he sounds and really not caring.

"We both know I am," Peter says. "I would have just because you asked."

Stiles doesn't really believe that, but doesn't say anything. He's not sure yet how to focus on heartbeats and pick up lies yet anyway.

"So what do we do? I don't even know who he is or how to find him," Stiles says.

"He'll find you. He'll try to call you to him," Peter says.

"Like you did to Scott?" Stiles asks.

"Yes," Peter says. "Until then, we work on your control. To be honest, I'm quite surprised you haven't gone off the rails a bit yet. But then again, you never cease to amaze me."

"Yeah, well, you weren't here while I was freaking out earlier," Stiles mutters.

"You need to sleep," Peter says. "The bite takes a toll on the body, especially a bite so brutally given."

"I don't want to sleep," Stiles says immediately. "I remember what happened to Scott, he ended up in the middle of the woods having eaten rabbits all night."

"That's because I was calling to him," Peter says.

"Yeah, and what happens when he calls for me?" Stiles asks.

"I'll keep you here," Peter says simply. "I'm more than a match for a newly turned, untrained beta."

Stiles looks at him suspiciously, but really, what would Peter gain from Stiles going crazy and clawing up his neighbors? Without him, Peter can't find the alpha, can't take the power from him. So Stiles lets Peter steer him to his bedroom. He lets Peter pull off his shirt, tsking again at the ragged bite. It's starting to scab over, Stiles' werewolf healing kicking in already. Werewolf. Fuck. Stiles lets Peter steer him into bed, but draws the line at him tucking him in. Peter instead settles himself next to Stiles, leaning up against his headboard. Stiles glares, but Peter just raises an eyebrow, clearly saying that he isn't moving.

"How am I supposed to sleep?" Stiles asks. "I can hear everything."

"Focus on one sound," Peter says. "Make it one consistent, like the white noise of a fan or refrigerator. Let it lull you to sleep."

Stiles tries, he really does. The sound of his fan is obnoxious, the air conditioner wheezy and inconsistent. The neighbor is watching reruns of Golden Girls and that's really, really unhelpful. Stiles doesn't realize he's doing it, but he focuses in on Peter's heartbeat, on the stead thumping rhythm. Peter's here, Peter's at his side. Peter won't let him kill anyone. Peter came when Stiles called. 

As positive as he had been that he wouldn't be able to sleep, Peter is right. The bite is taking a lot out of him, and combine that with his adrenaline crash, it only takes ten minutes of him focusing on Peter's heartbeat before he falls asleep.

His dreams are weird. He's chasing someone through the woods. Then he's being chased. There's the nogitsune, but he's used to that. He's used to dreams of killing others at his hands. Of liking it. What he's not used to it the way he's craving blood, craving the kill on an animalistic level. He's tearing into something with his teeth, biting and destroying, and he looks up and sees the body is Scott, then his dad, then Peter...

Stiles wakes with a start, heart hammering and breath short. Peter's there over him, pressing his shoulders down into the bed. Stiles breath is still coming in gasps, but he knows where he is now. He's not in a forest, he's not chasing down his loved ones. He's here, Peter's here, he's grounded. He's safe. Well, as safe as he can get.

"I'm okay," Stiles says. "I'm fine."

It's then that he realizes his claws are out, and his hands are wrapped around Peter's forearms, his claws buried in Peter's arms. Stiles immediately lets go, staring at his hands, willing the claws to go away.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, not looking away from his hands. The claws are still there.

"It's fine," Peter says. "It's your sheets that are ruined, not mine."

Stiles snorts, appreciating Peter's attempt at humor, but he can't tear his eyes away from where thick claws are sprouting from where his nails should be.

"I can't get them to go away," Stiles says.

"I know you already know about anchors, Stiles," Peter says. "Find yours."

Stiles thinks of his dad, the person who should be his anchor, he thinks, but all he can do is worry. What if he can't control himself? What if he hurts his dad? His dad is accepting of the whole werewolf thing in general, but what if he can't accept that for his son?

"Whatever you're thinking, change tracks," Peter says. "I can smell your panic."

So that's what that harsh, acrid scent is. Basing an anchor on a person is stupid anyway. He remembers Scott when Allison died. He remembers Melissa's words, be your own anchor. But Stiles is the problem, isn't he? He's the one that was bitten, he's the one that could destroy those he loves.

"Try again," Peter says and yep, that smell is still here.

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to focus, tries to really focus on what keeps him human, on what would calm him down enough to regain his self-control. Peter's heartbeat is loud in his ears still, and it's stupid, but it calms him down. The regular, steady pattern is something Stiles can focus on, can keep the distractions and panic away. It's not healthy and he really needs to find a permanent anchor, but for now it works. Stiles can feel the claws receding, the shift flowing back and he thinks that maybe now that he knows what to look for, how it feels, he'll be able to do it on his own.

"There you go," Peter says approvingly and Stiles kind of hates how much he loves hearing that in Peter's voice.

"I'm good," Stiles says, opening his eyes. "Still glowing?"

"Back to brown," Peter says.

"Were they...you know?"

"Blue," Peter confirms softly. 

Stiles sighs. He'd known they would be, but still, having it confirmed doesn't feel good.

"What time is it?" Stiles asks.

"Noon," Peter says. "Get up. You need to eat."

All Stiles really wants to do is go back to sleep, but he knows Peter's right. His metabolism is faster now, his body requiring more energy to function. He groans but rolls out of bed, following Peter to the kitchen. He stops by the bathroom on the way, relieving himself then taking a look in the mirror to confirm that yep, that bite is gone, completely healed. He pulls up the shift, easier now that he knows what it feels like, and feels it roll over him. His eyes flash blue, his claw slide out, and his face morphs into the beta shift. Stiles lets it go, watching his features smooth back out to normal. Fuck.

Peter's at the stove when Stiles walks into the kitchen, standing in front of a pan of scrambled eggs. 

"Your fridge is full of garbage," Peter says, which is true. Stiles is pretty sure most of it is leftovers or energy drinks. "Eggs are all I can do."

"Eggs are great," Stiles says. He doesn't know why Peter is making him breakfast, but he isn't complaining.

Peter's scrambled eggs smell delicious, way better than when Stiles makes them, though that might be the new sense of smell. Peter laughs when Stiles jumps at the toaster popping up. Stiles flips him off but accepts the toast anyway.

It gets easier to adjust to his new senses as the afternoon goes on. Peter teaches him how to distinguish smells, how to pick out sounds and heartbeats. How to estimate how far away a car is just on how it sounds. He teaches Stiles how to hear a lie. 

"The full moon is two weeks away, that will be your true test," Peter tells him. "But I doubt you'll have too much trouble. You're taking to being a wolf well."

Stiles actually believes him. It's easier to focus like this, and he wonders if werewolves can even have ADHD. Everything is fascinating to him, everything he can do or see or smell. Especially Peter. His wolf (and he can feel it now as part of him, not as something trying to take him over) is entranced with Peter. It's entranced by Peter's strength, by Peter's knowledge. How Peter is taking care of Stiles (it doesn't care if Peter's motives are selfish, it cares that Peter's doing it). Stiles' wolf wants Stiles to rub himself against Peter, to cover the other man in their scent. Stiles reins himself in, barely, though Peter gives him looks once in a while that makes Stiles think he's very aware of Stiles' struggle.

It's later that night, after Peter and Stiles finish dinner (Peter had left Stiles alone for a half hour while he ran to get takeout, a little mini test to see if Stiles could handle it. Surprisingly, it went all right.) that Stiles feels it. It's a tug deep inside him, an urge. He has to leave, he has to follow the pull. 

"Peter," Stiles says, putting down his fork. Peter's eyes are immediately on him at Stiles' tone. "I can feel it. I think he's calling me."

"Then let's go," Peter says. 

Stiles leads them out of the apartment and down the street. It's almost like slipping into a trance, like he's being driven by this compelling need to follow the pull. He's glad he has Peter with him. It helps keep his head clear, remind him of what they're here to do.

The pull leads him to a park in a less than pleasant part of town, a kind that has swings but you wouldn't let you child play in alone. Peter stops Stiles before they cross into the overgrown grass with a hand on his arm.

"You go on alone," Peter says. Stiles looks at him in alarm but Peter shushes him gently. "I'm not leaving you, Stiles. You're going to distract him, keep his attention on you. If he's as far gone as I think he is, he may not notice me, especially with my scent all over you, but I don't want to take the chance."

"Good, so I'll just be a bigger target," Stiles says sarcastically. "Is it going to piss him off, smelling another wolf on me?"

"I'm counting on it," Peter says, then steps away from Stiles, melting into the shadows provided by the park's trees.

"Asshole," Stiles grumbles under his breath.

Stiles does as Peter says and follows the call deeper into the park. He ends up in the trees, avoiding used needles and trash scattered around the ground. He reaches out with his new senses and can hear the alpha, his heartbeat so different than Peter's. But he can also hear Peter swinging wide around them. Stiles doesn't know if the alpha doesn't hear or smell Peter, if he's too far gone, or if just doesn't care, but Stiles will take it. 

Walking through a cluster of trees, he finds himself in a small clearing, the strange alpha standing in the center. The man looks deranged, his face twisted in the beta shift, snarling. His clothes are ragged and hang loosely off his frame. He growls when Stiles comes into the clearing, nostrils flaring, taking in the scent of Peter, of a different wolf. He stalks forward, faster than Stiles would have thought him capable, and presses Stiles against a tree, his claws pricking at Stiles' throat.

"You're my beta," the alpha growls out, his voice like gravel.

"No," Stiles says, though it's like fighting through molasses to say it.

The alpha snarls, slamming Stiles' head back against the tree, making the wood creak. Spots dance in front of Stiles' vision and he fights to keep his eyes open.

"I bit you, you're mine," the alpha says.

"No," Stiles says again, though it's hard with the alpha slowly squeezing off his air supply.

It's probably not the smartest thing to say, because the alpha throws him by his neck, sending Stiles crashing into a nearby tree. Stiles hears something break, either his ribs or leg or both, judging by the pain. The alpha walks toward him, hunched over with his claws out, and this is it, Stiles thinks, this is how he's going to die. He can't hear Peter, can't tell if he's nearby. All he can smell is the dirt-covered alpha and all he can hear is the blood rushing in his own ears.

Peter doesn't need him alive, Stiles realizes. He could let the alpha kill Stiles easily, the kill the alpha while he's distracted by his dead beta. It'd be smarter, even. There'd be no way to trace Stiles' death to him, no way for Scott and the others to find out he's now an alpha. Peter would be free to take over Beacon Hills and fuck, Stiles hasn't thought this through. 

Stiles tries to drag himself backwards and away from the advancing alpha, but the sharp pain in his ribs and leg protest and he can't, he just can't. The alpha is only a few feet away and moving quickly. He raises his hand, claws out, ready to slash at Stiles, then Peter is suddenly there behind the alpha. His claws reach around to the alpha's throat and rip it out with a spray of blood and tissue. Some of it splatters on Stiles but he doesn't care, because the alpha is falling dead at his feet, eyes blank.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Stiles asks hysterically.

Peter's eyes are closed and he's breathing harshly, and fear floods Stiles. His leg has healed enough that he can drag himself up and prop his back against the tree.

"Peter?" Stiles asks quietly.

Peter opens his eyes and they're bright, blood red. There's nothing in those eyes that comprehends what's going on around him. Peter roars, loud and long, and Stiles has a second to think maybe he's made a huge, terrible mistake before Peter is in his space, nosing at his neck. Stiles turns his head to the side, letting the alpha, _his_ alpha, scent him, nuzzle at his throat.

"Don't run," Peter growls against his throat.

"What?" Stiles asks.

"Don't run," Peter says. "If you run, I'll need to chase you. Don't run."

"Okay, yeah, not running," Stiles says.

Stiles' heart is hammering in his chest, waiting to see what Peter will do. He doesn't think Peter will kill him, but he doesn't know. The alpha power was too much for him last time, wasn't it? But this time is different. Peter is sane this time, he's whole. He doesn't hate Stiles, there's no reason to kill him. That's what Stiles keeps telling himself, but it's hard to tamp down that fear reaction when there's an apex predator with his fangs so near his neck.

Peter seems content just to nuzzle at him, though. He noses up the line of Stiles' throat, breathing him in. Stiles startles when he feels something wet and realizes Peter is licking up the side of his neck and it jolts something deep in Stiles, both the need to submit and desire. It's not the time, and he knows it, but he can't help it. He's hardening in his jeans and his whole body is pressed up against Peter's, there's no way he doesn't feel it.

Peter growls against his skin and Stiles has the brief second to fear that he's about to get his throat ripped out, then Peter is rolling his hips, and _oh_. Peter's hard against him, the line of his erection pressed against Stiles'. Stiles can't help it, he moans at the contact. Peter growls again against his throat, then sets his teeth against Stiles' skin. But he isn't threatening him, he's nipping at Stiles' throat, sucking marks into his skin.

"Peter," Stiles moans. 

Stiles doesn't know if he's trying to tell Peter to stop, or beg him to keep going, but Peter rolls his hips against Stiles' again and fuck, that feels good. It's been a long time since Stiles has been with someone, and Peter is a gorgeous man, he can't help himself. His body reacts to Peter sucking and biting at his neck, to the man's erection being pressed against his own and he can't help it. He presses his hips forward, getting more friction on his cock.

Peter's hands rest of his waist, dragging him closer. They roll their hips together, frotting like high school kids, chasing their pleasure. Peter presses Stiles closer against the tree, biting harshly at his neck which fuck, just pushes Stiles closer and closer to the edge. He never would think he'd be able to come like this, but he can smell the pheromones Peter's releasing, can feel Peter's desire through the pack bond that had snapped into place as soon as Peter had killed the alpha.

Stiles should probably fight it, this is Peter, he's dangerous, but it feels too good. Stiles wants this, wants Peter. He's wanted Peter for a while, and his wolf doesn't want to deny himself this. 

"I'm close, Peter," Stiles pants, and isn't that embarrassing? He's going to come in his pants from humping Peter Hale in a park. Everything is so much more sensitive now as a wolf, that's what he blames it on as he comes with a shout, Peter clamping his teeth down on Stiles' throat as he stills. Stiles can feel Peter's cock twitch against him, can smell the pleasure as Peter comes and it's intoxicating. It makes him want to do it again.

Stiles comes down slowly, his hands fisted in the front of Peter's shirt. Peter runs his hands up Stiles sides, gently wrapping around his back and pulling Stiles to him. Stiles shudders, burying his face in Peter's chest. Peter makes a rumbling sound, and Stiles finds the vibrations going through him soothing. Peter's hands, claw-free, run up and down his back, rubbing soothing patterns. Stiles sighs, relaxing into the touch.

"Are you all right?" Peter asks. His voice is quiet, if a bit rough.

"Yeah," Stiles murmurs. "Are you?"

"It's...a lot," Peter says. "But it feels better than before. I feel...solid. Honestly, you help." 

"How?" Stiles asks, though he has an inkling he already knows.

"You can feel it, Stiles. The pack bond," Peter says.

Stiles can. It's like warmth settled in his chest, and he can feel Peter on the other end of that. 

"I can feel you," Stiles says.

"And I can feel you," Peter says.

"I can't tell, is there anyone else?" Stiles asks. "Did he have any other betas?"

"No. Just you," Peter says. He pulls back slowly, almost reluctantly, to look at Stiles. His eyes are back to their usual blue and he no longer looks blank, like he's fighting for control. He looks at Stiles for a long time before stepping back. "As much as I enjoy the feel of cooling semen, I'd like to get back to your place and to take a shower."

Now that Peter says it, Stiles is acutely aware of the mess in his pants. He groans.

"This is your fault," Stiles says.

"I don't recall you telling me to stop," Peter says.

Stiles glares, but it has no real heat behind it.

It's a ten-minute walk back to Stiles' apartment and he's never been so happy to be home. His neighbor, an old Russian woman named Catherine, looks Peter up and down appreciatively. Stiles bares his teeth at her until Peter grabs him by the arm and pulls him up the stairs.

"Watch the fangs, darling," Peter says and Stiles realizes yeah, they've dropped. "Your possessiveness is sweet, though."

"I'm not - it isn't - " Stiles stutters.

"Sure," Peter says. He walks through Stiles' apartment, stripping as he goes, until he's gloriously naked, his muscled body on full display. "Coming?" he asks over his shoulder as he steps into the bathroom. 

Stiles hears the shower turn on and images of wet, naked Peter fly through his mind. He really shouldn't. Peter is, for now, his alpha, and that can get messy. But he can't help it. He doesn't know if it's his wolf or his own bad decision-making skills, but he follows Peter into the bathroom. 

Peter's already in the shower when Stiles walks in. Stiles strips quickly and steps in behind Peter. It's a small shower, but they both fit. Peter's wet and covered in soap and Stiles takes a second just to stare. His body is beautiful, thick and strong, and intellectually, Stiles had known that, but seeing it for himself is something different. Peter's cock, thick even when soft, hangs between his powerful thighs, and Stiles feels a low level of desire pooling in his belly. When he finally manages to tear his eyes away and up, he sees Peter smirking at him. Stiles flushes.

"Enjoying yourself?" Peter asks.

"Shut up," Stiles says. Not his best come back.

"Come here," Peter says. 

Peter pulls Stiles forward and under the spray of the water. It's hot and feels amazing on Stiles' tense muscles. He sighs and closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water run through his hair. He can feel Peter moving, then the man is touching him. Stiles opens his eyes and to see Peter with the soap in his hand. He runs it down Stiles' arm, soaping up his skin as he goes. Stiles sighs and closes his eyes, content to let Peter wash him.

Peter's thorough, covering all of Stiles' skin with gentle hands. He turns Stiles and washes his back, down to his ass, and legs, before reaching around and running a soapy hand over Stiles' soft cock. Stiles groans and tries to control himself, but he starts to harden in Peter's hand. Peter chuckles and moves in closer, pressing his warm, wet body to Stiles' back, and Stiles can feel Peter's erection pressed against his ass. That doesn't help him calm down, just makes him harder, because before, it could be written off as a rush of alpha power, as Peter needing to claim and mark his packmate, but not now. Now, Peter is in control of himself, Peter's instincts aren't running him. Peter's hard because of Stiles.

Stiles presses back against Peter, against the hardness there. Peter's hand tightens around Stiles' cock and starts stroking him slowly, his other hand wrapping around Stiles' chest to hold him against his body. Stiles leans his head back on Peter's shoulder, giving the man access to his bruised neck. Stiles should hate that marks left by alphas last longer, but he finds he wants Peter's mark on him, wants to feel it whenever he touches his throat. He doesn't know how much of that is the wolf and how much of it is him.

"Peter," Stiles gasps.

Peter speeds up, his hand slick against Stiles' shaft and he jacks him. Stiles is getting close, his whole body tensing for release...then Peter stops, squeezing tightly around the base of Stiles' cock. Stiles whines, pressing back harder against Peter's erection, trying to encourage him, but Peter stays firm. He leans in, breath ghosting against Stiles' ear.

"Go lie on the bed for me," Peter says.

It's an order, but not an alpha order. Stiles' cock twitches in Peter's hand and he can feel Peter's smirk. 

"Why?" Stiles asks breathlessly.

"Because you're not going to come again unless it's on my cock," Peter says.

And fuck, that sounds good, that sounds really good. Stiles can't remember the last time he was fucked, and with Peter's impressive length...yes.

Peter lets go and Stiles climbs out of the shower and dries himself off just enough that he isn't dripping, then hurries to his room. He briefly considers going on all fours, he loves being fucked from behind, but he wants to see Peter's face. He grabs the lube from under his bed before crawling into the middle of the mattress, spreading his legs wide.

Peter walks in a few minutes later, still nude and damp from the shower, and lets out a subvocal growl at the sight of Stiles spread out on his bed, his hard cock resting against his stomach. Stiles shivers at the sound, never really having an appropriate reaction to things that should be frightening.

Peter stalks forward, his erection long and thick between his thighs, and kneels on the end of the bed. He crawls forward, covering Stiles' body with his own. Stiles' eyes are wide as he looks up into Peter's intense stare and slowly, very deliberately, he tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck to Peter. Peter's eyes flash red and Stiles' breath catches.

"Come on, alpha," Stiles says. "I thought you were going to fuck me?"

Peter growls and leans down and Stiles assumes it's to bite at his neck, but no, Peter is kissing him. It's hard and bruising, Peter completely dominating Stiles. Stiles gives into it easily, parting his lips and letting Peter lick into his mouth. Peter's hands find Stiles' and press them against the mattress, pinning the smaller man under him. Stiles whines, his wolf wanting to fight being held down, but reveling in being under their alpha. 

Peter pulls back, the red in his eyes fading back to blue, and he slithers down Stiles' body, pressing a kiss to the tip of his hard cock as he goes. He takes the lube sitting next to Stiles' leg and covers his fingers, tracing around Stiles' tight rim.

"Ready, sweetheart?" Peter asks.

"Yeah," Stiles says, tilting his hips to give Peter easier access. 

Peter sinks a finger into him and Stiles mewls at the stretch. Peter's fingers are thick and it's been a while since Stiles has had anything in him, but Peter is patient, more patient than Stiles expects. He has three fingers inside of Stiles, torturing him with quick brushes against his prostate, when Stiles starts to beg.

"Please, Peter," Stiles whines. "Please, god, I need you in me."

That seems to be what Peter's been waiting for. He pulls out his fingers with an obscene squelching noise before taking Stiles by the hips and lining his cock up with his entrance. Peter pushes in slowly, letting Stiles' hole stretch around the wide head of his cock before pulling back. He watches, almost entranced, as he spreads Stiles open again and again, backing off each time right before he pops past that tight ring of muscle.

"Peter!" Stiles says.

Peter gives in, pressing in slowly, his thick cock filling up Stiles more than he's ever had before. Stiles gasps, grabbing at Peter's arms. His claws are tingling, trying to extend, but Stiles fights it back, fights the shift.

"Good boy," Peter praises as Stiles' eyes fade back to brown. "Good job."

Peter doesn't even sound affected, like he isn't buried in Stiles' ass, and that's just not acceptable. Stiles clenches down, tightening around Peter. It earns him a surprised gasp, Peter's hands tightening on Stiles' waist. He growls and pulls back just enough to slam into Stiles. Stiles shouts in surprise and realizes Peter can fuck him harder than he could a regular human, Stiles' werewolf body can take it. His cock spurts out a bit of precome at that.

Peter pounds into him hard and fast, setting a brutal and bruising pace. Stiles loves it, loves the feeling of being used like this. Peter hits his prostate just right, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. He can't control the harsh noises he's making, that Peter is forcing out of him. Stiles gets lost in it, in the drag of Peter's thick cock inside him, lost in how his hole clings to Peter, lost in how when Peter's done with him, his hole will probably be a gaping mess.

Peter's rhythm starts to falter and Stiles can tell he's getting close, tell he's ready to spill inside him.

"Come on," Stiles pants. "Come inside me."

Peter growls at that, his hips moving faster. He buries his face in Stiles' neck and worries at the mark he'd left earlier, biting down harshly when he comes, cock pulsing inside of Stiles. Stiles tries to grab his cock, but Peter bats it away, wrapping his own hand around it, jacking Stiles quickly, licking over the stinging bite. It takes no time at all before Stiles is coming, shouting Peter's name as he spills over his hand, his hole spasming around Peter's cock.

"Don't pull out," Stiles slurs, wrapping his arms around Peter's back. "Don't wanna be empty."

"Okay," Peter says, gently maneuvering them to their sides. His cock shifts in Stiles, but doesn't slide out. Peter slips a hand between their bodies and rubs a finger around Stiles' stretched rim. Stiles mewls, burying his face in Peter's shoulder. "Shh," Peter shushs. "Just checking for tearing. I used you a little rougher than I normally would."

"It feels good," Stiles says. 

"Figures you would be a pain slut," Peter says.

"Shut up," Stiles says, headbutting Peter's chest. Peter just snorts and rubs his cheek against the top of Stiles' head.

They're quiet for a long time, long enough that Peter softens and slips from Stiles' body, a trickle of come seeping out of his hole after. They're tangled together on Stiles' bed, both bodies supernaturally warm. Peter absentmindedly traces patterns on the soft skin of Stiles' shoulders and Stiles lets himself sink into the comfort his (temporary) alpha can provide. If this is what having a pack is like, that warm, comforting bond that feels like it's right in his heart, he doesn't blame wolves for loving it. 

Stiles can hear the neighbors next door fighting about money, can hear the TV downstairs playing a Jerry Springer rerun, but it's easy to tune it out when his ear is right over Peter's heart. Stiles groans.

"What is it?" Peter asks.

"This doesn't change anything," Stiles says. "I'm still going to be in Scott's pack, not yours."

"I know, I'm not trying to change that," Peter says. His heartbeat doesn't trip. "But if you ever decide you need a change of pace, my door will be open to you."

"I have to figure out an anchor before I go home and talk to him about it anyway," Stiles says.

"What are you using now?" Peter asks.

"I don't want to tell you," Stiles says.

"Why?" Peter asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"It's embarrassing."

"Stiles, you have my come dripping out of your ass, and yet you still find something too embarrassing?" Peter asks. 

Stiles flicks him in the shoulder and fights back a groan, knowing that Peter won't give up until he knows.

"Fine," Stiles grumbles. "It's your heartbeat, okay?"

Peter stills under him, the total preternatural stillness that only the weres he's met seem to get. He briefly wonders if that's something he'll be able to perfect, or if he'll still be as flail-y as always.

"My heartbeat," Peter says slowly. "Oh."

"Yeah," Stiles says, face bright red. 

Peter's quiet then, but he doesn't smell angry, so Stiles takes it as a win. He doesn't let go of Stiles either, keeping his strong arms wrapped around Stiles' frame. 

"We'll figure something out," Peter says eventually. "Anchors can shift. Derek's used to be anger, though I'm sure that's changed what with his whole new zen outlook."

"Yeah," Stiles mutters. "I still have to tell Scott. 'Hey, so remember how I said it's fine, we can all go to different schools, how bad can it be? Well guess fucking what.'"

"I'm sure you'll float it a bit better than that," Peter says, then seems to consider it. "Or not, it is you, after all."

"Asshole," Stiles says, but even to him it sounds fond. Damn it. 

"You'll figure it out," Peter says, running his fingers through Stiles' hair. Stiles can't help but lean into the contact. "You always do."

**Author's Note:**

> The non-con ish is Peter and Stiles rubbing each other off while Peter is high on his alpha powers and not 100% in control of his instincts.
> 
> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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